Winchester Wonderland
by AngelOfLorien
Summary: Sam and Dean work a case in the Christmas capital of Wisconsin involving mysterious deaths, jolly townsfolk, and a noncorporeal Santa. [nothing TOO serious, nonWincest]
1. Chapter 1

**_I've never written a Supernatural story before, so be gentle.  
I'm hoping I kept the boys pretty much in character. I added a few behind-the-hand giggles for fans of the show that notice things like I do. (ex. Sam always gets choked, Dean always gets tossed against a wall, etc.)_**

**_The story is pretty cheesy, so don't take it too seriously. :-)_**

CHAPTER 1

"You're kidding, right?"

"Nope."

"Sam…" Dean Winchester clenched his jaw as he looked at his brother.

"Dean, I'm serious. I think it warrants some checking out. I mean…it is pretty weird," Sam said.

"So's Tom Cruise but we've never investigated him."

"Dean—"

"Ok, ok. Fine," Dean muttered as he slid into the driver's seat of his Impala.

---

Sam woke with a start as the Impala hit a pothole.

"Where are we?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

"About 10 miles from Snowdell," Dean said. "Sit up and read that article again."

Sam cleared his throat and stretched before grabbing the manila envelope and flipping through the contents.

"Snowdell, Wisconsin. The bodies of 76 year old Eric Lloyd and his wife, 62 year old Beatrice Lloyd, were found in their home on Friday. No sign of forced entry, nothing stolen. The only evidence that anyone else had been in the house were a set of sooty footprints leading to and from the fireplace. Police checked the flue; no sign of ladders, ropes—nothing. Cause of death is listed as 'asphyxiation of unknown element'. Which is basically cop-talk for 'gee I don't know'."

"You got any theories? And I swear to God, Sam, if you say Santa Claus I'm going to pop you one."

Sam shot his brother an arch look and leafed through the envelope.

"I've gone through every death record in the Snowdell area for the last fifty years. So far there's been at least one death just about every year between December 15th and Christmas. All the same deal: no forced entry and footprints from the fireplace."

"Whoa, whoa. Are you telling me that nobody finds it a little weird that somebody kicks it the same way almost every year around the same time?"

Sam shrugged. "Guess not."

He looked out the window as they passed the city limits sign and his mouth went slack as he got his first good look at Snowdell.

Festive wasn't a strong enough word to describe it.

Every street lamp, telephone pole, and park bench was wrapped with tinsel and garland. Christmas lights hung from every storefront and home. Beside the quaint hometown market, children and teens were ice skating on a frozen pond.

"Oh my God. It's like we got sucked into A Charlie Brown Christmas," Dean said as he eyed everything with a look of disgusted interest, like one might look at road kill to identify what animal it used to be.

"It's normal for small towns," Sam said. "Look, Dean, just…try to blend in, alright? Be nice and don't draw a lot of attention."

"I'm nice," Dean said, affronted.

"Yeah, whatever," Sam said, opening his car door and stretching his long legs.

"You want left side of the street or right?" Dean asked.

"Left," Sam said.

"Alright. You take the grocery, beauty shop, and women's boutique." Dean gave a little laugh. "Typical."

"Shut up," Sam said.

"I'm going to the hardware store, Luanne's restaurant, and Madame Kimberly's Dance Emporium."

Dean waited for Sam to cross the street before cupping his hands over his mouth. "Hey, you better not waste time getting a pedicure."

Dean gave an amused laugh as Sam shot him that go-to-hell look again before ducking into the beauty parlor. He tugged his leather jacket tighter around him and walked through the lightly falling snow to the hardware store.

The doorbell chimed as Dean opened it and stepped into the store. His boots clunked loudly on the hardwood floor. From the overhead speaker, Bing Crosby sang of white Christmases, and people laughed merrily from the front of the store.

"Well, hello there, young sir," an old man said with a smile at Dean.

"Hey there…Walt," Dean said, reading the man's nametag. "I'm Agent Marley with the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

"How can I help you? See you at Bingo tonight, Martha," Walt called as a white haired lady smiled politely and left the store. "That's my girl," he told Dean. "Been married 46 years."

"Well, she's…a looker," Dean said. Man, his public relation skills sucked.

"That she is. How can I help you?" Walt repeated.

"My partner and I are here investigating the deaths of Eric and Beatrice Lloyd."

"Yes," Walt said with a shake of his head. "Terrible thing. Just terrible. And so close to Christmas. Eric and I were in the service together. Joined up in '58. Can I offer you some eggnog?"

"Sure," Dean said, never one to bypass any kind of free food or drink. The old guy was nice and forthcoming. Maybe a little flighty, but Dean was confident that he could get plenty of information out of him.

---

The tang of hair color and permanent chemicals hit Sam like a slap in the face. As soon as the bell above the door jangled, all eyes turned to him and the bustling beauty parlor fell silent.

"Well hello there!"

A round elderly lady with a pleasant smile greeted Sam as he stepped to the counter.

"Hello, ma'am. I'm Agent Cratchett," he said, flashing his badge. "My partner and I are in town investigating the death of Eric—"

"And Beatrice. So sad. Just tragic. My name is Brenda Thompson," the woman said, sticking out a hand. "Can I offer you a trim?"

"No, thank you," Sam said. "About the murders…"

"Such an unpleasant topic," Brenda said, ushering Sam to a barber chair.

He shook his head. "Really, ma'am, I'm on duty."

"So am I," Brenda countered. "One thing you should learn, honey. A beautician does her best talking when she's cutting someone's hair." She ran a hand through Sam's shaggy locks. "Although you wouldn't know that from the looks of it," she added to herself.

Sam's brows furrowed as he suspected he was just insulted, but he leaned back in the chair and let the woman put a cape on him.

"Who you got there, Brenda?" a white haired lady asked as she came through the door.

"This is Agent Cratchett from the FBI, Martha. He's here investigating Beatrice's death," Brenda said as she expertly clipped Sam's hair into sections.

"Oh, yes. I just came from the hardware store. His partner was there."

"Gwen, you'd better get out from under that dryer before those highlights catch on fire," Brenda called.

One of the round dryers lifted and a young woman stood up and got in another station.

"I want you to do my hair for the pageant tomorrow," the girl said.

"Oh, Gwenny, that color is splendid on you," Martha said.

"Gwen Staples, this is Agent Cratchett. I'm assuming Agent isn't your first name," Brenda said.

"Uh, it's Sam," Sam supplied.

Gwen smiled politely before asking Brenda if she could give her a manicure.

"Was Mrs. Lloyd in bad health?" Sam asked before they could get any more distracted.

Brenda picked up her scissors and began snipping. "Nope. That woman was in the best shape of any of us. She had a weekly Pilates class that she would go to. I went with her once, but Pilates isn't really for people with a squat-stature."

"Has anyone else in the area suffered from asphyxiation?"

"Not that I recall," Brenda said, spraying Sam's hair with water before setting into it with a razor comb.

If Sam had been an average FBI agent, he wouldn't have noticed the knowing look that passed between Brenda Thompson and Gwen Staples. As it was, he filed it away for further investigation when he had his handy-dandy laptop.

---

Dean was leaned against the side of Madame Kimberly's Dance Emporium sipping eggnog when Sam crossed the street. His brother held his arms out at his sides in question.

"Anything?"

"Just the nicest freakin' people on the planet," Dean said. "Oh, and Kimberly—of Madame Kimberly's Dance Emporium—gave me her number. But no one knows anything about the Lloyds' death, or if they do they aren't letting on. This stuff is fantastic," he said, lifting his cup and draining the last of his eggnog.

"D'you get anything? Other than a makeover, that is?" he said, grinning at his brother's freshly-trimmed hair.

"Nothing straightforward," Sam said self-consciously running a hand through his hair. "But there's definitely something going on."

"What makes you say that?"

Sam shrugged. "A hunch."

"It isn't one of your psychic freak-boy hunches is it?" Dean asked. "Never mind. Forget I asked."

They started back to the car and Dean tossed his cup in the garbage bin. "You know, this place is nice. The people are friendly, and talk about Christmas spirit...it's great."

"What?" Sam demanded, perplexed. "Dean, you hate Christmas. I mean, you're the only person I know of who stops watching _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ before he has a change of heart and gives the Whos their stuff back."

"Hey, those Whos had it coming," Dean said as he shut his door.

Sam shook his head at his brother and leaned back in his seat to snag his computer.

"So where to next?" he asked as he was waiting for the laptop to boot up.

"I figured we could go check out the house," Dean said.

Sam nodded and Dean pulled away from the curb.

--

"You notice anything weird?" Dean asked as Sam worked the lock on the Lloyds' front door.

Sam gave a scoff of laughter. "Uh…where should I begin?"

"Dude, check it out," Dean said, leaning over the porch railing and pointing down the street. "Rudolph, Santa, Rudolph, Baby Jesus…this is the only house on the block that doesn't have Christmas decorations."

"Now you're paying attention to decorations? Seriously?" Sam asked, tucking his tongue between his teeth as he gave the lock pick one final twist. "We're in."

They went in and closed the door behind them.

"You smell that?" Sam asked.

"What is that?" Dean replied, sniffing. "Wood smoke?"

Sam nodded. "There're no logs in the fireplace."

"So the killer smells like wood smoke? That's gotta suck."

Dean pointed to the plush white carpet.

"Sooty footprints," he said. He put his foot next to them in comparison. "Size…I'd say a 13, easy."

"Big guy," Sam commented. "There's also no Christmas tree."

"That's weird."

"Not really, considering they didn't have any decorations in the yard."

"Yeah, but what are the odds that the people that get smoked are the only ones on the block who aren't tricked out for the holidays?" Dean asked.

"So…what? You think some kind of vigilante decorating committee decided to kill Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd because they wouldn't put up a few lights?"

"Hey, those subdivision clowns are highly anal. Remember that episode of the X-Files?"

"Must have missed that one," Sam said dryly. "Look, Sherlock, just help me look for clues, alright?"

"I'm telling you, my dear Watson, it has something to do with the lack of decorations. I feel it in my pipe."

"That's probably some sort of infection," Sam muttered. Before Dean could reply, he went into the kitchen area. "I'm calling truce. Enough with the Sherlock Holmes references. Let's just get this done before one of the neighbors call the real cops."

--

Dean pulled the Impala into the parking spot in front of room 11 at the Snowdell Motor Lodge and the boys unpacked their gear.

Dean, in keeping with his ritual, grabbed a clean pair of boxers and headed to the bathroom to test the shower.

The true way to tell a good cheap motel, according to Dean Winchester, can best be seen by the amount of water pressure that is in the shower. If it is a soft pitter-pattering, then the motel sucks and is probably more suited for families on vacation. However, if the spray from the shower comes ridiculously close to peeling the flesh from your bones, then that is a good hotel for a Hunter.

The higher the water pressure, the easier it is to get clean when you are covered in blood, mud, and demon puss.

This particular motel shower received 8 out of 10 on the Dean Winchester Shower Scale.

While Dean showered, Sam put his geek-boy skills to use and looked up everything he could find on both Brenda Thompson and Gwen Staples.

"So? Anything?" Dean asked as he pulled a pair of jeans over his boxers. He plopped down on a bed and crossed his ankles.

"Brenda Thompson is clean; not even so much as a parking ticket. No clear association with any victim," Sam said. He took a drink from his soda and propped a foot on the chair across from him.

"Gwen Staples is another story. Back in 2000, Tim and Nina Staples suffocated in their sleep."

"Parents?"

Sam nodded. "The official report states that there were no signs of anything unusual in the preliminary autopsies. It was like they just held their breath until they died."

"Which is impossible, 'cause they would have passed out before they died," Dean said, sitting up and pulling on a t-shirt. "Any mention of footprints?"

"No, not in any of the reports."

"Come on," Dean said as he scooped up his jacket and headed for the door.

"Where are we going?" Sam asked, closing his laptop and pulling on his hoodie. The cold wind stole the air from his lungs as they left the room.

"I'm going to talk to Walt again. See if I can get anything from him," Dean said. "You go hit the library and do your record searching thing. You have money for a cab?"

Sam held his arms out with a look on his face that silently asked if Dean _really_ thought Snowdell had taxis.

"Fine. I'll drop you off," Dean said as he slid behind the wheel.

--

"Dean, we've talked to almost everyone in this town and all we've got zilch. Nobody even acts like people have been dying. It's like we're in the freakin' Christmas Village of the Damned. It's starting to creep me out."

"Aw, poor Sammy," Dean said in a pitiful voice.

"Whatever," Sam said, dismissing his brother. He sniffed and huddled deeper into his jacket, trying to think of a way to hold his cell phone without having his fingers out of his sleeve.

"Dean, do you think maybe this is like some sort of demi-god thing?"

"What, like in Indiana?"

"I dunno. Probably not." Sam sighed and sniffed again. "I've been doing research for the past six hours. I think I might have something, but…it's not like anything I've heard of before."

"What is it?"

"Back in the 1920s there was this guy named Rudy Adavanta," Sam said. "He was a nice, charitable type of guy. If anyone in town had problems financially, he would take care of it for them. In exchange for his kindness the townspeople went all out for his favorite holiday. Any guesses which one?"

"Christmas," Dean said.

"Yeah. Get this: Rudy Adavanta was a full-time Santa Claus. Apparently there was a big department store here at the time that had its own Christmas division, and Rudy worked there year round."

"Ok, so?"

"_So_, one day while working, Rudy Adavanta fell off his platform and hit his head, landing face-down in the cotton snowdrift decoration."

"You're kidding," Dean said. "He suffocated?"

"Yup. How's that for bad luck?"

"Yikes," Dean said. "Alright, we have our 'who'. What's the 'why'?"

"I haven't gotten that figured out 100 yet, but I do know that everything was normal until 1958. That's when the first asphyxiation death happened."

"Ok, we'll keep digging," Dean said. "Any tell-tale signs amongst the victims?"

"I've got a theory," Sam said. "I'll tell you when you pick me up. I'm freezing my butt off out here."

--

Kaye Douglass sat on her sofa, sipping wine and reading. Since her blood-sucking ex husband had taken off with his 20 year old secretary, she had time to chill out and relax.

Her doorbell rang and she muttered a few choice words as she sat her wineglass down. She opened her door to a troupe of carolers singing Jingle Bells.

"You've got about three seconds to get off my porch, Mark," she told the man in front.

"Where's your holiday spirit?" Mark asked as the other carolers shuffled down the steps with hushed whispers.

"In Bermuda with a co-ed," Kaye replied before slamming the door.

She stormed to her kitchen to take a fresh bottle of wine from the counter and take it back to her seat. By God, if she had to put up with this town and their ridiculous festiveness, she'd do it while blind drunk.

She heard a noise behind her and turned.

"Oh, great!" she muttered as dirt and soot fell from her chimney flue. "Friggin' squirrels."

She sat her wineglass down again and went to the kitchen to get a broom. "What the hell?"

There was a set of footprints leading out of her fireplace. With fear slicing through her like a knife, Kaye whirled to run to her telephone, but stopped short as a figure stepped in front of her.

"You're not real," Kaye said, shaking her head slowly.

The figure stretched a white-gloved hand toward Kaye's throat, and she started gasping.

"Please," she wheezed as fat tears rolled down her cheeks.

She fell to her knees and onto her back, her eyes going glassy as she exhaled for the last time.

Large black boots clumped across the polished wood floor and returned to the fireplace. The killer laid a finger on the side of his nose and nodded, disappearing up the chimney in a puff of green smoke.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Sam entered the restaurant and sat down at a table near the door. The place was packed, which was no surprise since it was the only restaurant in town.

He had been interviewing the coroner that had worked on Kaye Douglass, the latest victim, when his phone rang and Dean had insisted that he meet him at the diner for lunch. So he excused himself from the coroner's office and walked across town—in the freezing cold—to meet Dean.

Not that it would have mattered; even if he had kept up his questions, the coroner's lips were sealed.

Surprise, surprise.

"Hey Sammy," Dean called as he crossed the floor, taking off his jacket.

"What…the…hell…" Sam couldn't control his horrified expression as he took in Dean's sweater. "What are you wearing?"

"Swell, isn't it? Martha gave it to me," Dean said, holding the green sweater out from his body. "Hey, check this out," he said. He pressed the nose of the reindeer that plastered the front of the sweater and it started to blink a blinding red light.

"Huh? Huh? Sweet, right?" he insisted with a gigantic grin.

Sam didn't know whether to laugh or punch his brother in the face with every ounce of strength he possessed.

"Why the sudden burst of Christmas cheer?" Sam demanded, ignoring the curious glances from the patrons around him.

"Just getting into the holiday spirit," Dean said.

"Screw the holiday spirit, Dean. We have houses to look at and a case to clear, and only a little bit of time left to do it in."

"We'll get it done," Dean said. "We'll do the house thing right after the pageant. I sort of told Madame Kimberly that I'd be there to cheer her on," he said with a flick of his eyebrows.

"We're here on a serious investigation, Dean," Sam said, clearly at the end of his rope. "To hell with the pageant, ok? People are dying and we don't have time for this crap."

Dean pushed his sweater sleeves up and gave his brother a reproachful look.

"You need to get the stick out of your ass for like five minutes," he muttered.

"You need to come back to Earth and help me solve this case," Sam countered. He stood up and threw down a dollar for his coffee. "I'm going to do some work. Enjoy the stupid pageant."

---

Sam opened the door to their room and stared. Multi-colored lights were draped over every surface. A cheery wreath shimmering with tinsel hung on the bathroom door.

"Dear God," Sam muttered. He slung his jacket onto the bed and sat in a chair, pulling his computer to him. He leaned his chair back and reached into the fridge for a beer while his computer got started.

There was a scuffling on the roof that drew his attention, but he shook his head and ignored it.

"What the…?"

Sam sniffed the air, smelling wood smoke. He went to the window and opened the blinds, looking outside for the source of the smell.

From the heating vent in the wall, a thin wisp of green smoke curled between the grates. The smoke solidified and walked toward Sam. As if sensing he was no longer alone, Sam turned around and flinched in surprise.

"Holy sh—"

His words were cut off as a round little man in a Santa suit stretched out his hand toward his throat. Sam's oxygen was cut and he clutched at the invisible force that was closing his throat.

From behind him, the door burst open and the deafening sound of a shotgun filled the little room. Sam reflexively jerked back as the spirit was sliced with rock salt and disappeared. The boys watched as a cloud of pine-green smoke formed in the middle of the room and returned to the heating vents.

"You ok?" Dean asked as he eyed Sam.

Sam coughed a little and nodded. He had gotten used to being choked a long time ago. It was one of those things that seemed to happen at some point on every job.

"I'm fine," he said. "I thought for a second there that you really decided to go to that pageant."

"Yeah, well, if you hadn't opened those blinds in another five minutes, I was going to leave your ass for Rudy." Dean looked at the heating vent. "I'm assuming that _was_ Rudy Adavanta, right?"

Sam nodded again. "I don't get it. Rudy Adavanta was never mean or vengeful," he said as he sat on the end of his bed. "He was like the Dudley Do-Right of this town. Why would he be killing people?"

"Well, I'm no expert, but I'd suspect that suffocating in a pile of cotton snow might change a person a little bit," Dean said dryly. "But I'm with you. It's not the usual schtick. I mean, ghosts, they have their own way of doing things—a specific place or person. I don't think Rudy's here on his own."

"I think he's being pointed to certain people," Sam said.

"People who don't go in with the whole Christmas cheer thing," Dean said, following his brother's train of thought. "Our little setup pretty much cleared that up. You made the public display of anti-Christmasism and he showed up here. The Lloyd's had no decorations, neither did the Douglass chick—"

"And she had just yelled at a group of carolers," Sam reminded him.

"So whoever's using Rudy as a Christmas guard dog was probably at the diner," Dean said.

"Yeah, but Dean, half the town was in that diner today and the other half probably heard about our argument five minutes later. There's got to be some way to narrow it down."

"What do you suggest then, Professor?"

"I think we need to go talk to Gwen. Maybe we can get her to help us find out who's running Rudy."

Dean laughed and pressed his fingers to his eyes.

"Oh…I can't believe we're after a freakin' Santa Claus." He looked at his brother and shook his head. "I swear, dude, if this job gets any more ridiculous, I'm calling it quits."

--

They were driving down Main Street toward Gwen's house when Dean grunted to himself.

"Hey Sam, I just had a thought."

"First time for everything," Sam quipped.

"Ha ha. So this ghost is going after Scrooges, right? People with no Christmas spirit? And someone in town is controlling him. So what happens if you don't celebrate Christmas? What if you're Jewish or Jehovah's Witness?"

"I dunno. Maybe they're exempt or something," Sam said, watching the crowds for Gwen.

"That's a little unfair," Dean said.

"Tell you what; you can take up the fairness of who gets murdered when we catch the guy behind it."

"Alright, Mr. Crabby. Just making conversation."

"There she is," Sam said, pointing to the red-haired woman rushing to the curb with a large box.

The street was busy, with pedestrians and cars passing in a constant flow.

Dean pulled the Impala to the curb and they got out, shutting their doors with habitual synchronization.

"Ms. Staples?"

Gwen looked up and sighed.

"Agents."

"What do you have there?" Dean asked, peeking into the box.

"A bunch of old Christmas junk," Gwen said.

"Of course it is," Dean muttered.

Gwen dumped the box into the garbage bin and replaced the lid, and then started walking toward a little red-nosed reindeer on her front lawn. With a vicious yank, she pulled the reindeer from the ground and started back toward the bin.

"Yikes," Dean whispered. "Uh, mind if I ask what you're doing, exactly," he called, chasing after Gwen.

"Undecorating," Gwen said without pausing in her steps. "Is that a crime?" 

"Maybe," Dean replied with a little laugh. He watched Gwen shove the little reindeer down into the bin, giving a little wince as the plastic cracked and popped.

"Look, Agents. I'm not really in the Christmassy mood. Christmas is always a really difficult time for me—"

"Because of your parents," Sam said.

She looked surprised, but recovered quickly. "Yeah. And now with Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd and Kaye…I just don't feel like having a bunch of stupid decorations up right now."

"I'm not sure that it's a good idea to take 'em down," Dean said.

"Why not?"

"Because…well…uh, inspiration. Christmas decorations make people remember happy times."

"My parents died around Christmas, Agent Marley," Gwen said.

"Yeah, but you never had one happy Christmas? Never got a pony, or a doll, or whatever it is girls play with?"

Dean gave Sam a help-me-out-of-this look.

"What my partner is trying to say, Ms. Staples, is that from a psychological aspect, Christmas decorations are generally associated with a happier and more innocent time. Childhood."

Gwen looked at Sam for a long minute before she scoffed. "That's a load of crap."

Dean smiled. "I tell him that every time he tries that touchy-feely psychobabble on me."

"Can we talk inside?" Sam asked, burrowing his hands deeper into his jeans pockets. He was not made for cold weather.

"Sure," Gwen said. She led them inside and offered them a seat.

"So do you guys have any idea what is causing these deaths?" she asked. "I mean, is it some sort of government thing or what?"

"Have you ever heard of a man named Rudy Adavanta?" Sam asked.

Gwen shook her head. "What's he do?"

"He was a Santa Claus back in the '20s, here in Snowdell."

"Oh, yeah. They have a big exhibit of him in the local museum. Stories and pictures. He was like some big-wig in the town back then and started the whole Christmas craze. What about him?"

"Someone is sending his spirit after people who have no Christmas cheer," Sam said, ignoring the strangled sound his brother made.

"You're supposed to be the tactful one," Dean reminded him.

"Are you saying that a ghost is killing people?" Gwen asked.

"No," Dean said.

"Yes," Sam said at the same time.

"Dude!"

"We don't have time to ease you into it," Sam said to Gwen. "There's still two days until Christmas and plenty of opportunity for whoever is controlling Adavanta's ghost to kill someone else. Maybe you, if they saw you trashing your decorations."

"You're insane," Gwen accused, jumping to her feet. "Both of you!" 

"Me? He's the one talking about ghosts. I'm just sitting here!" Dean defended.

"Gwen—"

"Get out!"

Sam sighed and stood, looking at Dean and jerking his head toward the door.

"…throw us out now but when the killer ghost comes back she'll be all 'Help! Save me'," Dean muttered under his breath as he stalked to the car.

--

"You sure about this?" Dean asked later, when he and Sam were parked outside of Gwen's house.

"It's a small town. When I was in the market earlier a couple of people were talking about Gwen's meltdown."

"Yeah, but dude, we've been out here for four hours. It didn't take that long when Santa came after you."

"Maybe the killer had a more pressing engagement," Sam said, tapping the top of the EMF meter and readjusting the antenna to point more directly at the house.

"Yeah, maybe," Dean said, leaning back in his seat. He flipped on the radio and listened to Three Dog Night lament about not listening to their mama.

A familiar _wheer-wheeeeer _sound brought both brothers to attention and they shot from the car—salt shotgun and iron blade in hands—and rushed into Gwen's house.

Gwen was lying in the middle of the floor and Rudy was standing over her with arm outstretched. When Sam and Dean plowed through the door, the spirit looked up briefly, but before Dean could get a shot, he ran to the fireplace. Brushing the side of his nose and nodding at Sam, Rudy disappeared in a puff of green smoke.

"Gwen! Gwen, are you alright?" Sam asked, as he helped the pale woman sit up.

"It was—there—he—"

"We know," Sam said in a hushed (frazzled-nerve soothing) voice. "He's gone now. You're safe."

"I was just attacked by…by Santa Claus," Gwen panted. "You're not nuts," she said, looking at Sam and Dean with wide eyes. "Santa Claus just tried to Darth Vader me."

"Yeah, we know," Dean said, not bothering to hide the lack of interest in his voice. "Not to say I told you so, but…"

Gwen took the hand Sam offered and hauled herself to her feet. She glared at Dean.

"Well, excuse me, but I'm not used to ghosts of Santa Claus trying to kill me, and when you first mentioned it, it did sound a bit crazy. I mean hello? Ghosts exist?"

"Honey, if you only knew," Dean said with a crooked grin.

"Gwen, we think someone in town is using Adavanta to sort of…save Christmas," Sam said. "At least in their way of thinking. We need you to tell us who the biggest Christmas freak in town is."

"Just about everyone in town is nuts about Christmas," Gwen said. "It's what Snowdell is famous for."

"There's got to be a committee or something, right? Who's in charge of that?"

"Brenda's in charge of the pageant and the town decorating committee," Gwen said.

"Brenda Thompson?"

"The hair lady?" Dean asked, and Gwen nodded.

"Those are the top-most positions I can think of. To have both of them—it's like King of the Mountain for Christmas buffs."

"Looks like we're going to see Brenda," Dean said.

"I'm going with you," Gwen said.

"I don't think so," Dean countered.

"If she's the one sending that ghost after people, then she's the one responsible for my parents' death. I'd love to see you try to stop me from going," she challenged.

Dean looked at Sam, but his little brother only shrugged.

"Fine, you can go," Dean said. "But you stay out of the way and you do _exactly_ what Sam and I tell you, got it?"

Gwen saluted and followed Sam out the door, leaving Dean mumbling and cursing behind her.

--

"That's it," Gwen said, lurching from the backseat and leaning across Sam to point at a large Victorian house. "That's Brenda's house."

Dean circled the block and pulled in between two houses down the street from Brenda's.

When Gwen started to stumble out of the Impala, Dean grabbed her arm and steadied her.

"Thanks," she said.

"Remember what I said. Stay behind us, and if we tell you to go, you don't ask questions. You just get out, understood?"

Gwen nodded and followed him around to the trunk of the Impala.

"Whoa. That's a lot of weapons," she said.

Dean cocked the salt shotgun and tossed it to Sam, who caught it, tucked it under his arm, and continued to check the clip of his pistol.

"What's this for?" Gwen asked, holding up a throwing star. "Do you meet many ninja ghosts?"

"Funny," Dean said, taking the star from her and tossing it back into his trunk. "Do you want to wait out here? Because I will tie you up and toss your butt back in the back seat in a heartbeat."

"Dean," Sam said, drawing his brother's attention.

He locked his clip in place and tucked the barrel of the glock into the back of his jeans. His brother looped some rope around his arm, then did the same. Tossing Dean the shotgun, Sam balanced an old machete on his shoulder.

"Let's go."

"Any idea how to kill Rudy's ghost?" Dean asked as they walked along the alley.

"He should be put to rest when we get Brenda to give up control of him," Sam replied.

"What if she won't give it up?" Dean asked.

Sam arched an eyebrow and cocked his head to the side. "Let's hope she does."

"What if it isn't Brenda?" Gwen asked.

"That'd be really awkward," Dean said.

Sam gracefully pulled himself up onto Brenda's fire escape and looked in the window.

"Light's out." He jumped back down and climbed the back stoop. "Do you have the kit?"

Dean patted his jacket pockets and stamped his foot. "Damn! I knew I forgot something!"

"Dean!" Sam hissed and scowled when his brother smiled. "You're a friggin' jerk," he muttered as he snatched the lock pick kit from his brother's hand.

"Aw, lighten up Sammy. It's Christmas," Dean said as he shone his light on the doorknob.

"You know, the longer I'm with you two, the more I doubt the authenticity of your badges," Gwen whispered as Sam picked the lock. "I mean, Cratchett and Marley? That's like, from Dickens' _Christmas Carol_."

"You figured that out, did ya? Wow," Dean said. "You're a real honor student."

Gwen snarled at him.

"Shut up," Sam said. "It's open."

The trio crept through the kitchen and into the den, when a nice warm fire was blazing in the hearth.

Brenda was asleep in a high backed chair in front of the fire, a forgotten book laying on her lap and her glasses slipping down her nose.

"Man, she definitely looks like a ghost-wielding psycho," Gwen whispered sarcastically.

"They don't always look like bad guys," Dean said.

He draped the rope around Brenda's sleeping form and looped it through the back of the chair, tying it tightly. She snuffled, but didn't move.

"Hey, wake up," he said, nudging Brenda's chair and flipping on a lamp.

She woke with a start and would have screamed if Sam hadn't clamped a hand over her mouth first. Dean began pacing back and forth in his typical interrogation routine.

"I just can't figure why you did it," he said to no one in particular. "I mean, are you so obsessed with Christmas that the idea of someone not decorating just pushes you over the edge? 'Cause I gotta tell you, it's not that big of a deal."

He looked at Sam and Sam removed his hand from the older woman's mouth.

"Please," she said. "What do you want? Gwenny? What's going on?"

"Cut the crap, lady," Dean said. "You're the Christmas queen around here. Why would anyone else be so obsessed with whacking people who don't fall in line with the rest of your decorating lemmings?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Brenda said.

Dean jerked his head, motioning for Sam to join him. "Either this old bag is one hell of an actress, or things just got awkward," he said.

"December 20, 1958. Where were you?" Sam demanded.

"I—I don't remember," Brenda said.

"Guys…" Gwen whispered.

"Here's a clue," Sam said. Rodney Ellings. You were summoning the spirit of Rudy Adavanta to kill him."

"What?" Brenda asked, shocked. "I was eleven years old in 1958. I lived in Holdsdale, Oregon."

"Dean—" Gwen tried again.

"You think I—I killed someone?" Brenda asked, then went limp as she passed out.

"She fainted?" Dean said.

"You think she's telling the truth?" Sam asked.

"I don't know. I don't know! Who else could it be?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," Gwen said, stepping back behind Dean. She gripped Dean's jacket in one hand and pointed to the doorway where a short figure stood in the shadows.

"Things just got awkward," Sam said to Dean.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

"Perhaps I can be of some assistance."

"Ah, not you," Dean said as Martha stepped into the light of the room.

She gave her snow white hair a pat and shrugged one shoulder, the movement causing the jingle bell necklace around her neck to tinkle.

"Sorry, precious," she told Dean. "You're such a sweet boy."

"You?" Gwen said heatedly. "You killed my parents?"

"Of course not, you silly girl," Martha said. "I have never killed anyone. I have simply tried to keep the spirit of Christmas alive. To keep Snowdell alive."

"By using the spirit of a good man to kill?" Sam asked.

"It's what Rudy would have wanted," she said. "He believed in Christmas. He knew what was important. For fifty years I've been taking care of this town. Since the year Walter and Eric left for the Navy. Christmas was the one time of year they would able to be home, and the crotchety old judge wasn't going to let us give a Christmas parade."

"The judge was Rodney Ellings," Sam deducted.

"Yes," Martha said. "It was all a big accident, really. Just a silly teenager with a couple of old books and candles. But, somehow, Rudy was given to me. He was a gift—a sword of justice to protect the spirit of Christmas. After Ellings, I knew my purpose was to keep the joy and feeling of Christmas alive every year. The ones who tried to ruin Christmas and bring down the town's morale were punished."

"You're seriously screwed in the head, you know that lady?" Dean asked.

"I've worked my whole life to protect Christmas!" Martha shouted. "I should be head of the Christmas committee! I should be in charge of the pageants! I should get the glory, not her!" she yelled, pointing at Brenda.

"Christmas isn't about decorations and parades and pageants," Sam said, crinkling his brows in an expression of sympathy.

"Yeah," Dean said. "It's about family and friends, and love, and all that other mushy crap. It's about giving and doing for others."

"Putting the needs and desires of other people ahead of your own," Sam finished. "By sending Rudy's spirit after people and killing them for 50 years, you've done more damage to the spirit of Christmas than those who didn't put up lights or decorations would ever do. But you can fix it. First give up your control over Rudy."

"Then go to the police and confess to the murders," Dean said. "They wouldn't be able to convict you, but at least the truth would be out."

"No!" Martha said, lunging forward and grabbing Gwen by the arm and pulling out a pair of scissors.

"Oh, come on! Where did she even have those?" Dean wanted to know.

He drew his pistol and Sam cocked the shotgun at the same time. Martha didn't know that it was loaded with rock salt.

"No one would look at me the same," Martha said, holding the scissors to Gwen's throat. "I'd be treated like I was crazy. Not like the hero that I am!"

Dean took a slow step to the left. "Why don't you just let her go?"

"You think killing Gwen is going to make for a happy Christmas? You're ruining it for everyone," Sam said, taking a step to the right.

The scent of wood smoke filled the room, and Sam and Dean stepped back toward each other.

"You smell that?" Dean asked, looking around.

"Yeah," Sam said, crinkling his nose. "He's here."

Martha hauled Gwen around in a circle as she looked around frantically.

Green smoke drifted through the flames in the fireplace. Martha stared in wide-eyed wonder as the fog moved through the air. Gwen took the opportunity to ram her elbow into Martha's stomach, breaking the older woman's hold and run to Brenda's side.

Rudy Adavanta appeared and stood in front of the fireplace.

"Get her untied and get out of here," Dean said slowly to Gwen.

"Way ahead of you," Gwen said, pulling Brenda to her feet and shuffling her out of the den.

"It's over, Martha," Sam said, holding the shotgun on Rudy while Dean held his pistol on the woman. "Call him off. Let him go, and we'll call it a night."

Martha closed her eyes and pursed her lips. Rudy disappeared.

"Where is he?" Sam shouted.

There was a crash from the kitchen and Gwen screamed.

"Dean! Sam! In here!"

The Winchesters rushed into the kitchen in time to see Gwen swing a box of Morton in a wide arc, sending salt flying in a thick stream toward the outstretched hand of Rudy Adavanta. With a howl, the ghost disappeared.

"Where did he go?" Gwen asked.

"He's gone, but he'll be back," Sam said, lifting Brenda off the floor where Gwen had dropped her. "She's starting to come around."

"Sam!" Dean shouted.

Sam looked behind him and saw Rudy reform in front of Martha.

"Kill them all. They want to destroy my Christmas," Martha said.

"Get them outta here, Sammy," Dean shouted. He picked up the iron machete that Sam had placed on the counter and held it like a baseball bat.

"Come on, you fat son of a b—"

His taunt was cut short as the spirit moved its arm and he was thrown against the wall. The machete went skittering across the floor, as did the pistol that was knocked from his waistband.

Martha laughed and clapped from the kitchen door.

"Oh, you want to play, huh?" Dean said as he dragged himself from the floor. "Let's play, old man."

Rudy—his ghostly face ever expressionless—stretched out his arm and clenched his fist. Dean grabbed at his throat as his air was cut off.

A shot rang out through the kitchen, making Dean flinch. The spirit disappeared in wisps of green, and for the first time a smile curved his lips. As the ghost disappeared, Dean could see Martha's shocked face as she stared down at a dark red patch that was spreading across her crisp white shirt.

Dean whirled, expecting to see the regret-filled face of Sam, but was shocked to see the determined expression on Gwen's face.

She looked at Dean and set his gun on the counter, then brushed past Sam to see to Brenda.

--

Sam slammed the trunk on the Impala and tossed his bag in the backseat.

"So what do you think'll happen to the Christmas capital of Wisconsin?"

"I figure it'll keep being the Christmas capital," Dean said. "Nothing died with Martha but a nutso old lady and a 60 year old ghost. This town will be able to make it without her."

Sam nodded and jerked his head, indicating something behind Dean.

"I'm gonna go make a final sweep of the room," he said.

Dean turned around and tucked his hands in his pockets as he looked at Gwen.

"How're you doing? After…"

"I'm fine, which makes me a little nervous," Gwen admitted. "It had to be done. She wouldn't have stopped. He would have killed you, then the rest of us."

"Still, it's…it's tough," Dean said, clearing his throat. "You know, killing someone."

"You've killed people?"

"I've killed things that looked like people. Some things that were at one time people. And yeah, things that were still people. But because of it, other people—decent, good people—lived. That's what you gotta remember. When it starts to get to you, remember that you, me, Sam, and Brenda…we're all alive because you did what you had to."

Gwen nodded and offered him a handshake. "Thank you. I'm sorry I was such a pain in the ass."

"Hey, I'm used to it. I live with Sam, remember?"

"Brenda doesn't remember much. She was unconscious for most of the ghost stuff, but she woke up in time to hear Martha tell Rudy to kill us."

"That's good. At least she doesn't think you're some kind of psycho."

"I told her it was a mistake on the FBI's part," Gwen said.

"Tell her to write to her Congressman," Dean said with a grin.

She smiled and tucked her hands into her hoodie. "So, are you guys leaving now?"

"Yeah," Dean said, running his hand over a pile of snow on the side mirror. "Gotta keep moving."

"You can stay and spend Christmas if you want," Gwen said. "I mean, we still have the parade and the Christmas Eve festival."

"No thanks," Dean replied. "I'm a little Christmassed out."

"Oh," she said. "Ok. Well, you guys be careful. If you're ever in the area again, stop in."

Gwen turned and began walking down the driveway.

"Hey Gwen," Dean called. When she turned to face him, he shrugged. "You did good. You know, with the whole ghost thing. Most people would have been wrecked, but you did good. That says a lot about what kind of person you are."

A soft smile curved her lips and she lifted her hand in a wave before turning and continuing on her way.

Dean sighed and turned around to yell for Sam to hurry up, and—_whap!_—got a face full of snow. He ran a hand over the melting snowball and glared at his little brother, who was grinning cheekily, his dimples on full display.

"What are you? Twelve?"

"Dean, Dean, Dean…" Sam said, scooping up another handful of snow.

"We don't have time for this Sam," Dean said. "Get in and let's get out of here. We gotta get on the road."

Dean bent to pick up his duffle bag and shoved it in the back seat.

_Whap!_

Cold exploded over his butt and the backs of his thighs. He straightened quickly, banging the back of his head on the ceiling of the car.

"Sam!" he bellowed as his brother laughed. He straightened and saw that Sam was still on the other side of the car.

"The road can wait a little bit," Sam said, inclining his chin.

Dean whirled and saw Gwen standing at the end of the driveway, flicking snow from her mittens. He sighed and shook his head with a grin.

Sam cleared his throat. "I'm gonna hang out here and do…something. You should, I dunno, go get some breakfast or something."

"You're forcing me to go on a date?" Dean asked, arching a brow at Sam.

"I know. It's weird, right? Go," Sam said, returning Gwen's wave. "Whatever freaky thing that's gonna happen next will wait a couple of hours. It's Christmas, Dean."

Dean huffed a long-suffering breath and smiled at his brother. "You're such a girl."

"Shut up and get down the driveway before she leaves," Sam said, giving his brother a shove.

"Alright, alright. I'm going," Dean said, sauntering toward Gwen. He looked over his shoulder. "Bitch."

"Jerk," Sam replied, without hesitation.

He sniffed and shrugged into his jacket. Screw watching Dean walk off into the sunset with the girl; it was freaking cold. Rubbing the tip of his nose to warm it, Sam walked back into the motel room, stretching out on the bed and watched the end of _It's a Wonderful Life_.

-

-

**_I know it was short and kinda harried at the end, but I figured why drag it out? _**

**_I hope you enjoyed it, regardless of its flaws and the number of times the word 'Christmas' is used. lol_**


End file.
